


Consolations (Or, Never fuck with a Clansman)

by JaqofSpades



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Con is Mild, TSC Prompt 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby Scanlon is pretty sure he’s the last surviving member of the Page clan, and he spends a lot of time trying to figure out exactly how he feels about that.  Bad, of course, because his chief and his brothers and sisters are all dead, and he still bellows “for Duncan” when he goes out to cut throats, and thinks of the cesspit – sorry, New Vegas -  as home.  But … he’s made it out, and he’s taking scalps, and this new clan has its consolations.<br/>Real pretty ones, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consolations (Or, Never fuck with a Clansman)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Revolution: The Second Coming at theorgyarmada.tumblr.com. This is my fill for Connor/Scanlon, Prompt 4: The old men were scary but Charlie Matheson was terrifying.

Toby Scanlon is pretty sure he’s the last surviving member of the Page clan, and he spends a lot of time trying to figure out exactly how he feels about that. Bad, of course, because his chief and his brothers and sisters are all dead, and he still bellows “for Duncan” when he goes out to cut throats, and thinks of the cesspit – sorry, New Vegas - as home. But … he’s made it out, and he’s taking scalps, and this new clan has its consolations.

Real pretty ones, in fact.

The guy he knew as Jimmy King – or, more correctly, had always wished he knew, because Duncan was happy enough to tolerate people like him, but god forbid she caught him drooling over her pet fighter’s fine ass – turned out to be Sebastian fucking Monroe, one half of the scariest duo on the planet. He’d scraped together the survivors and done exactly what Duncan had told him to do, shepherding them to Willoughby, tracking down Monroe, turning them over to him. Only to discover Monroe is back in bed with Miles Matheson, The Butcher of fucking Baltimore, and suddenly, this little war is on.

So of course he’s focusing on kicking Patriot ass, he needs a lot of scalps to count off all his dead, but he’s still fucking alive and can’t help but thinking maybe this is his chance to finally get a taste of Jimmy King.

Except, not, because it turns out all those rumours about the President and his General were really fucking true, and he found out the fun way. That image will be burned on the back of his eyelids for the rest of his ever-loving life. He doesn’t dare to think about it, let alone say something, because the old men might be scary but Charlie Matheson, it turns out, is fucking terrifying, and the memory of her down on her knees, sucking Monroe’s cock while the Butcher slams into him from behind … that one is staying locked away, too dangerous to even think about unless him and Mr Giggles need some personal time.

So when Connor Bennett comes over all sad-eyed and mooning over Charlie, what the fuck is he supposed to say? “That one’s got her mouth full, junior,” or “you’re about 20 years too young,” or “go ask your Daddy,” because, really – how is it possible for someone to be _that_ blind? Monroe’s bitch, Duncan had called her, and god rest the woman, she was rarely wrong. Even if she’d only seen half the equation. Or is that a third?

Or … fuck. He doesn’t even know what comes next, counting wise or in the camp, because lately, Connor’s being trying to make time with sweet Heather Matthews, and it’s like watching a tornado bearing down. Maybe Connor hasn’t seen it before but he sure as hell has, the way two women will walk side by side, hips brushing, hands in each other’s hair when Matheson forgets herself enough to be girly, eyes meeting across the campfire, and the way they vanish together … he doesn’t know how the hell she manages it, but the woman is building herself a freaking harem.

Personally, he’d rather fuck something safe like a rattlesnake or polecat. But danger is its own aphrodisiac, every plainsman knows that, so he doesn’t say a damn thing. Connor’s a big boy – let him figure it out for himself.

But then the little shit can’t take a little bit of trashtalk and ends up waving a burning stick in front of his fucking face. He knows better than to try and play alpha dog in that sort of situation, but Connor Bennett has a thing or two to learn about Plainsmen if he thinks he’ll take that sort of thing lying down.

Funny how things work out.

Bennett sleeps like the dead, which makes it so easy to creep up on him that it almost takes the fun out of it. Almost, he grins as he pins the other man’s arms under his knees, and tickles him awake with his knife. The surge of muscle underneath him, bucking like a pissed off bronc, makes Scanlon realise two things. Connor Bennett isn’t quite the lightweight he looks. And his goddamn cock doesn’t know the difference between fight and fuck.

“Mmmmfff,” his victim screeches, and it’s a full of so much rage that he figures Bennett has to know exactly who is pinning him to his bedroll. Still …

“Now, see, this is what you get when you make idle threats to a Clansman,” he says plainly. Boredom. As long as he doesn’t nudge Bennett with his rapidly stiffening cock he can probably pull off bored.

Bennett stills – yeah, baby, bow to the big dog, suck on this – and he takes the opportunity to dance the blade all over the cocky sumbitch’s neck. Doesn’t want to cut him or anything – fuck that myth about the Plainsmen getting off on the taste of blood, anyway. Sometimes he feels downright obliged to be all kinky and shit, when all he really wants is to run his tongue all over that pretty, sunbrown skin. And find the places the sun doesn’t get to much, and set up shop there for _days_.

“What the hell, Scanlon?”

Oops. Mr Giggles done spilled their hand.

He mumbles an apology, trying to lift his hips without lifting the knife. It’s harder than you’d think.

“So now you’re gonna rape me because I waved a stick in your face?”

“A burning stick! But … nah.”

“Thought you warclan scum were all about the raping and pillaging,” Bennett mumbles and … is that _disappointment_ in his voice?

“I keep my cock for people who really deserve it,” he snarls, remembering Duncan’s directive: she’d slice your balls from your body if you touched another man or woman like that, but they didn’t want people actually knowing that. Rep to maintain and all.

“Deserve it? How does that work?” Bennet is trying to sneer, he realises, but he’s lifting his own hips a little. Is he …

“Are we playing 20 questions here? Turn the fuck over.”

And … oh yeah. Dude has a giant boner poking at the front of those tight black jeans. His mouth practically waters at the sight, and this time, he makes sure Bennett gets a good look at him looking.

“Someone likes being held at knifepoint a little too much,” he taunts, and fuck – that giant dick just twitched. Time for –

“Oh, fuck. Please, Jesus y todos los santos. Por favor …”

Yup, mush. Scanlan trails the point of his knife around that impressive package one more time and then releases the top button on Bennett’s jeans. Then the second, and the third. That’s as many buttons as he has in him before he has to put down the knife to pay his respects to the glorious cock that is emerging. He tugs it into the open then fists it as Bennett rubs him through his jeans.

“You want me to cut your dick off, Bennett, or suck it?”

He gets an incoherent babble in return, but the “please, please, please” is really all he’s listening for.

He drops the knife to trace his tongue around the finely-cut helmet, then plunges his lips right down to the nest of coarse curls. Pulls back a little, coating the man in saliva, keeping his mouth loose to make it last.

Toby Scanlon was gonna have himself some _fun_.

Bennett was moaning like a bitch, murmuring his name over and over as he dumped Monroe’s kid right at the doorstep of satisfaction over and over again. He’s pretty much helpless by the time Scanlon brings the knife back into it, making him shriek by nudging the flat of the blade over his nipple, and moan as he zigzags it right down his midline.

“Don’t cut me,” Bennett begs, and Scanlon pouts, mainly for the sport.

But, you know, a little bit of blood … the nick leaves a tiny trickle, just enough to add a coppery tang to the taste of precome and desperation. He hums with satisfaction, the vibrations making Bennett spout gibberish once more. He doesn’t speak Mexican, but he sure knows how “don’t stop, don’t ever stop” sounds.

So he doesn’t.

He slides the knife around a sharp hipbone and then adjusts his grip, wrapping his fingers around the base of the pommel to leave the beautifully carved head exposed. Connor tenses as it glides over his ass cheeks, then gasps as Scanlon nudges them open to trace the smooth pommel around the rim of his asshole. He gives the Bennett's cock one more loving suck, before letting it pop out of his mouth. “Well?”

“Well, wha -what?” Bennett stammers.

“Ask me nicely.”

And just like that any pretence of threat vanishes, Bennett undulating in his arms all the better to rub himself all over Scanlon's knife.

“Fuck me with it, please. Fuck me with your knife while you suck my dick, you cocktease.”

Scanlon slaps him for that, because – well, mainly because he _is_ a cocktease, and he's pretty sure that's exactly what's getting Bennett so ridiculously hard. He slicks his hand up and down that hot poker of a cock, gathering the saliva and precome to transfer to the pommel of his knife, and hopes Bennett's done this before. Because a dry fuck is still a dry fuck no matter how much you beg for it, and it's gonna hurt.

Then, he wouldn't put it past this fucked up kid to be into that.

He is running his tongue along the vein on the underside of Bennett's cock when he twists and pushes, then waits for the give. Bennett's hips buck forward just once before he relaxes into it, and Scanlon rewards him by easing his lips back and forth over that angry red helmet. It's only when Bennett starts to bear down on the knife that he starts to fuck him in earnest, slow probing thrusts followed by quick, hard ones, never settling into a pattern so that there's no expectation, no habit to dull the impact of what Scanlon is doing.

Bennett lets loose his load with no warning, the velocity of it practically choking Scanlon, more cum than he can manage in one swallow. He spits, instead, and glances up to find the spoilt Mexican prince grinning down at him with hot eyes and absolutely no intention of returning the favour.

Bad move.

He extracts his knife and surges to his feet, laying Bennett on his back with a single hard shove. Scanlon kicks his knees apart as he drops his own trousers, cock springing out angry as a mustang from a pen. He fists himself as he stares down at his stunned victim, silently giving thanks for the hungry gape of a freshly-fucked asshole. He's too pissed to do this slow.

“I've never ...” Bennett squawks, and Scanlon resists the urge to smirk.

“First time for everything,” he says coldly. “And this is your first time to be fucked so hard your brains will dribble out your ass.”

It's mostly just talk, his mean streak demanding a moment of payback. And really, he's too fucking worked up to last all that long. But Bennett doesn't need to know that, the glint of fear in those basset hound eyes shooting straight to his already leaking cock. There's only one thing for it.

He lunges, hooking the man's bony knees over his elbows and lining him up in one smooth movement. Bennett makes a shocked little noise as he pushes in, but Scanlon could care less, what with the stranglehold of tight muscle giving way to a slow velvet slide. Every neuron he has is fizzing, going off like fireworks, his balls already pulling up by the time he finishes that first sublime thrust. Not yet, not yet, not yet, he chants inside his head, perversely wanting to deliver on his threat. He sinks himself deep a second time, and then a third, before the pleasure flips the switch that sends him into garrulousness.

It's a character flaw, he knows.

He'll say any damn thing when he's coming. Gets him in trouble all the time.

“Wonder what Daddy would think if he could see you now? Knees up, begging for my cock like a little bitch? Course, his bitch probably rides him – hell, that girl? She probably fucks him with dick of her own,” Scanlon blathers as the white-hot release sweeps through him.

It doesn't come back to haunt him until later.

Bennett has paid for his sins with a long, thorough lesson in sucking dick, and they are lying side by side on the bedroll, having already exhausted round two and round three of their fuckathon. They're even trying first names on for size – not for use in public, of course, but kind of surprising how right it feels for this.

“Toby?”

“Yup.”

“Who were you talking about?”

“Dunnowhatyoumean,” he mumbles and fakes a yawn as his eyes slide shut.

“My dad's bitch,” Connor enunciates with a fuckyournonsense grin. “The one you think has a dick of her own.”

“Two dicks, actually,” his smart mouth fires off.

“Two? What – holy fuck. You can't mean what I think you mean.”

Toby rolls his eyes and tells himself camp secrets never stay secret for long.

“Your Dad is fucking Charlie Matheson. And you were right about him and Miles. And niece or no niece, it wouldn't surprise me if Miss Charlie likes to play the meat in a General sandwich,” he explains, his poor, exhausted cock managing to twitch at the mental picture. “You okay?”

Because Connor is shaking as he stares into space, obviously replaying every sweet moment he'd ever seen in a new light.

“Yeah. Just – trying to figure out how I didn't see it before. Pretty damn obvious, now I think back.”

“Can't torture yourself with that shit. Build a bridge or something,” Scanlon advises, running his hand down Bennett's torso to map the landscape of his belly. The dude must have super Monroe cock powers because he's hard again, and now that he's well and truly been taught a lesson … Scanlon is gonna focus his attention of figuring out just how distracting his “or something” could be.

_fin_

 


End file.
